Meat Puppets
Meat Puppets

THE REVIEW

I can easily see myself in 1982 walking home with the latest SST record under my arm, quickly stepping with the seams of my Vans about to give way. The record on the turntable, eyes on the cover. A child playing; green background: unusual for a Hardcore record. No promise of intent.

Meat Puppets from Phoenix: Rural Hardcore that only lacks a banjo player with a straw stuck between his teeth. One foot on tradition, the other on Californian fury. Once both are crushed and shattered, their puzzle begins.

With a Les Paul, a Fender Twin, and a voice that seems to sing with a dead rat in the throat, Curt Kirkwood - perpetually on acid - pushes the boundaries of what can be done with music, towards a sound as surreal as it is paradoxical, as ungraceful as it is refined.

Forget about “Meat Puppets II” or “Huevos”. This first and self-titled “Meat Puppets” resides in another galaxy, cartoonish with pastel colors, made of psychedelic trips. Like a Neil Young on speed.

The Kirkwoods came from the west side of Phoenix and smoked weed excessively and painted strange paintings and practiced all day. Outside, it was so hot that you had to stay indoors. They had nothing else to do but read comics, take bong hits one after another, and play music.